


The Curious Case of Mr. Holmes

by Galtori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Budding Love, Case Fic, Gatsby!lock, Gen, historical setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galtori/pseuds/Galtori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gatsby!lock, set in the time of Gatsby, but with Sherlock characters instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is my first major AU fic. I started this up several months ago when I was cheering up some friends in The Giant Chat of Sumatra.   
> Mostly unbeta'd (spare chapters 7 and 8, which I agonized over and codenamelazarus.tumblr.com helped me with). Hope everyone likes it!

Chapter 1

 

The party roared at the Holmes residence every night, but John Watson found no reason to investigate his neighbor’s parties. He had received no invitation, and his mother had always told him that it was rude to arrive at someone’s party without an invitation. So it was with great surprise one morning that John Watson awoke to find someone knocking at his door.  Pulling on trousers and a shirt, John answered the door to find an envelope on his doorstep. Confused, he didn't even go back inside to open the envelope. Inside was an invitation, written in flowing handwriting, inviting him to his neighbor's party. But as he read the invitation a second time, he felt a sudden prickle on the back of his neck. It was an old sensation he remembered from fighting in the Great War, and he turned, trying to find the eyes watching him, but only finding the darkness cast by the trees in his yard.

 

As night rolled in, the Holmes mansion lit up once again, and cars began to pour in as John limped around to his neighbor's front door. From those cars emerged the wealthy, the famous, the young, the old, the commoners, and everyone in between. John was in awe as he stared at the front of the mansion properly. He had seen it during the day, on his way to work at a small clinic in Manhattan. But it had always been dark in the mornings. It had never looked anything like this. Yet it seemed like everyone else passed by without a care for the decor, for the attention to detail, for the flowers lining the walkway, for the fountain where they all parked their cars. Once John walked onto the main path, he found himself swept up into the crowd, jostling to get inside. He could only hope that the crowd wouldn't push him onto his bad leg. If he fell, he was fairly sure he would be trampled by the masses trying to get in.

 

Fortunately, John managed to find his way to the center of the party without falling flat onto his face, though there were one or two incidents where a funny bloke tried to take his cane. But it seemed that no one had met the mysterious host. And even more maddeningly, he seemed to be the only there by invitation. Every single soul had laughed at the card he showed them.

 

After three drinks and almost two hours of waiting for this mysterious Holmes man to show up, John decided to go search the house for the host. He started in a disused dining hall (though technically it had been repurposed by a few couples to make use of its dark corners and lack of occupants), and worked his way around the house. It wasn't until he reached the library that he found anyone interesting at all. Curled up by the fire with a bottle of champagne was a thin man with a mess of dark curls and several books.

 

John took a moment to look at this possibly sober man before he interrupted the silence. "So what have you heard about this Holmes fellow? Everyone seems to have a different story." After a few moments, the man looked up from his book.

 

"I've heard a number of things. I've heard that he's a cold-blooded killer, that he's a freak, that he's a git, that he's a ghost, that he's a government front." The man began to lean forward, laying down the book and steepling his long fingers together in front of his face.

 

"Hadn't heard the government one yet, but at this rate, I might start believing the ghost rumor." John comments.

 

"Perhaps you should try to seek him out," the dark-haired man advised. "It would certainly put these rumors to rest."

 

"At the very least, I know he exists. Or at least I think he does. I seem to be the only one here with an invitation." He held out the card, waiting for a scoff that never came. Instead the mysterious man took hold of it with his long fingers and examined the card for a moment before handing it back to John. Tucking it back into his breast pocket, he regarded the mysterious man for another moment. "Well, I'm going to continue looking for him."

 

"Oh, I always love a good mystery." The strange man stood, and it wasn't until then that John realized that this stranger was much taller than him. And impeccably dressed as well, going by the suit. "Sherlock," the man introduced, holding out his hand. John switched his cane to his other hand before he reached for it, introducing himself as they shook.

 

“John Watson.” The grip was good, and John could feel the strength in that grip and those fingers.

 

When they pulled away, Sherlock walked ahead to open another door, leading into another large room. "So, your injury was in France, end of the War. Am I correct?" John turned in surprise.

 

“How did you –” John began, but Sherlock waved him off.

 

“Your suit has hints of French influence. You’re a former soldier based on your posture and how you enter a room, also by your search pattern. Also, the calluses on your hands are a good indicator. But they’ve become softer,” he explains, almost too quickly, but John is able to keep up with him.

 

“That’s incredible. You got all that without me saying a word?” John was flabbergasted. Who could do something like that? Sherlock glanced back before shrugging.

 

“Most don’t say that. But it is fairly obvious. All one has to do is observe their surroundings,” he explained. The pair now head upstairs, continuing their search for Mr. Holmes. John slowly limped up the stairs while Sherlock seemed to bound up them with ease.

 

“So what else can you observe about me?” John asked once they were both upstairs. Sherlock lead John to the nearby fireplace before focusing intently on the man. John had to keep himself from squirming, Sherlock’s gaze was so intense. It felt as though his clothing was stripped away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to this stranger. Sherlock then crossed his arms behind his back, circling John like a vulture or a hungry lion. After he circled John once, Sherlock smiled and began to talk more.

 

“You haven’t been doing anything related to the service since the War. Can’t be something overly active given your limp, but you’re still fairly active. You don’t work as a clerk or in a grocery store; you would have kept muscles in your arms. But given your sharp gaze, you need your intelligence. Your nails are kept trim, and your hair in good condition, so you interact with people on a frequent basis. Best guess is a doctor.

 

“Also, you aren’t as well off as most of the people here. Your suit is technically still in fashion, but that’s because it’s a classic style. You take good care of it, but a few little tells say that it’s a little over a year old. The cufflinks are knockoffs, though they are good imitations. Most soldiers have found their own place in the world by now, but your leg keeps you limited.

 

“You do have some family, based on the watch. But it wasn’t meant for you. That isn’t a knockoff. You wouldn’t buy it for yourself, given the cufflinks. If the gift was meant for you, it would fit better. You can see how a different hole has been used at one point. It isn’t something you wear all the time, it would have more marks on it if you did. Extended family wouldn’t bother with a gift like that, they would think of someone closer to them. So that means it’s a sibling. But you can’t be close to that sibling; if you were, they would pay for more things.

 

“Given the frown lines when I talk about this sibling, you are the one limiting the contact. Left handed given how you open doors. Anything else you want to hear about?” John was stunned. Absolutely stunned. Flabbergasted, floored, gob-smacked. It took John a few moments to regain his composure. But he could tell that Sherlock was pleased, given the glint in his eyes.

 

“That was amazing. Phenomenal. Spectacular. Brilliant.” Was there anything this strange man in front of him couldn’t do? “And yes, I am a doctor. What do you do?” He was fascinated by this man and just had to know more about him.

 

“I do several things. I –” he hesitated before continuing. “I assist a few people on different matters. Various things that keep my mind occupied.” John was curious to know more, but stopped himself from asking. If this Sherlock man wanted to keep his life private, that was his business.

 

“At this point, I’m not sure if this Holmes fellow will be able to top this adventure,” John joked as they cleared yet another room. By now, the party was winding down, and the pair went to one of the large windows, watching everyone stumble out to their vehicles. “So, what do you see about those two people down there?” John asked, curious to see what this companion of his could do. Sherlock glanced over before grinning.

 

“Tell me what you see first,” he replied. John flushed briefly before he focused in on them, trying to pick out details.

 

“You can see that both of them have been having too much fun. Their clothes are ripped. Probably from just being in the crowd.”

 

“Anything else?” John looked over, expecting to see a patronizing look on Sherlock’s face. Instead, he found genuine curiosity and gentle reassurance. Bolstered, John looked back out and focused on them. But before he could gather any more meaningful information, the pair climbed into a car and drove off.

 

“I couldn’t see anything else before they drove off,” he admitted. “So, how did I do?”

 

“Fairly well for your first time, spare the fact that you were wrong. However, I saw them come in and once more last night. The suit has been torn for almost a day. The dress however, was just this night. So this is their only nice outfit. But they had a fight tonight. Probably about the car, but it is a little difficult to tell. Inferring it’s about the car because they’re driving it around with stains and scratches. But she was holding her wrist, and his suit was torn. So they get into an argument, she was the one who started it, given her distaste of his appearance. But he fights back, pins her wrist down. She’s trying to move out of his grip when she injures that wrist and tears the dress. It’s been half a year, it doesn’t move like it used to. Which explains their torn outfits.” John takes a moment afterwards to shake his head.

 

“That’s cheating.”

 

“It is not,” Sherlock insisted. “Using information gathered over more than one sighting is not cheating. It’s simply taking in your surroundings. Now, what about that pair right there?” Sherlock pointed to another pair. John focused his attention again, and they continued for quite some time like this.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

Finally, they were sitting downstairs in the organ room with two glasses of champagne, analyzing the drunken fools passed out or too drunk to notice either of them, noting who slept with who, who had how much to drink, and other various ‘deductions’ or so Sherlock called them. Mostly it was John guessing and getting things horribly wrong before Sherlock would step in and correct him. But after guessing at least one thing about each person, some of the hired help came in and began to clear out all the drunken fools, most likely into cabs.

 

“Well,” John drained the last of his drink. “I think they’re going to start herding us out of here. So I will part here and bid you goodnight, Sherlock. Perhaps we can meet up some time later.” Sherlock chuckled.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, we have no need to move,” he replied, completely relaxed and at ease. “Carry on, but allow this man to stay,” he addressed the working men, pointing at John. “He is my neighbor, and any request he makes of you should be treated as a request from me.” The two men turned to Sherlock, looked at John, and then nodded before turning back to their business.

 

Neighbor. He is my neighbor. John thought had seen it all tonight, but apparently it was the night for John Watson to be wrong about everything.

 

“Yes, I am your neighbor,” Sherlock’s voice brought him out of his near-stupor, and it wasn’t until then that John realized he had spoken aloud. He turned to see Sherlock analyzing him over the rim of his champagne glass, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

 

“I told you I was looking for you,” was all that John could say. Perhaps it was rude, but John felt a little tricked.

 

“You never asked what my last name was, nor did you ask if I had seen Mr. Holmes. Though most ordinary people would have introduced themselves properly,” he conceded. After a few more moments, Sherlock began again. “If I have offended you by not addressing this, I do apologize. I meant no offense.” If it had been any other person speaking, John wouldn’t have believed them. But something about Sherlock’s posture, more rigid than before, and his tone, more hesitant than John had heard all night, made Sherlock’s point better than his words. John waved off the apology.

 

“I’m more curious about why you didn’t tell me who you are,” John stated. At that, Sherlock sat up.

 

“I wanted to get to know you better and show you around. I also needed to make sure you weren’t boring like the others,”Sherlock explained, almost as if it were obvious. “Either way, if you wish to come back tomorrow during the day, I can show you the rest of the house.”

 

“So you would just open your house up to a complete stranger?” It wasn’t that John was ungrateful, but he was shocked that a man of Sherlock’s wealth would open his house so easily to a stranger. Wasn’t he concerned about the things John could do?

 

“I have no concern about you stealing anything from the house. I would know the instant that thought crossed your mind. You’re more concerned about someone stealing from me than you are getting caught, that much I can tell from your face. My security is good enough that I have no concern about any unwanted fellows wandering in and stealing anything, and I would know if a new staff member showed up.” John opened his mouth to argue the point of the parties, but Sherlock moved to still him for a moment longer. “And that is also why I watch all of my guests leave the party. I will know the instant they try to steal anything of value. You have no cause for concern, and I know you well enough to trust you.” Sherlock gave John a strange look at the last statement before continuing. “And besides, I may need a consulting physician in my line of work.”

 

“You still haven’t specified what that is. If I’m going to consult you in it, I feel that I should know what it is.” John wasn’t one to put his foot down often, but when he did, it was on important things. And he was an honest man; he wouldn’t do dishonest work.

 

“Come by tomorrow, and I hopefully I will be able to show you. If work shows up before then, I will send one of my men or come by and wake you myself.” John gave a confused look at the timetable. What sort of work didn’t show up at a scheduled time? And the possibility of coming in the middle of the night? Who worked such ridiculous hours? “Though perhaps night time may not be the best time for you to learn about my work.” After a moment of consideration, Sherlock straightened again. “If it is an eight, I will come and fetch you myself. For five through seven, I will send one of my men. I would not bother you with anything less than a five.” Sherlock then nodded to himself, pleased with the amendment, though it meant nothing to John. “Regardless, you are welcome to come by tomorrow to see the rest of the house. I dare say that the beach is beautiful this time of year, should you wish to bring swimming trunks with you.” It had been over two years since John had relaxed at the beach, though he was still unsure of his knee and shoulder.

 

“I think I shall come by tomorrow. If it turns out to be anything like this evening, I would be a fool not to pursue such excitement when it is only just next door,” John finally conceded. His sister would think him queer, seeking this much excitement as an old soldier still haunted by his memories on the battlefield, or so the army physician said in his discharge papers. But at the moment, he didn’t care what his sister thought.

 

“Very well, Doctor Watson. Tomorrow it is,” Sherlock agreed. But as he limped down the front steps of the Holmes residence, John knew he was not being foolish. For the first time since the war, he felt his blood thrum through his veins. And when he undressed and finally lay down to sleep, he slept knowing that the next day would bring a challenge.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

The next morning, John woke early and got ready. No one had bothered him that night, so he supposed that Sherlock hadn't found any work. John wasn't sure if he should be glad about that or not. He got ready and brought a bag with him, packing his swimming suit. He repeated his appearance from last night, limping around to the front. A different servant answered the door today, but when he stated his name, he was shown into a large dinning hall and his bag was taken, presumably to a coat rack room. Ten minutes later, Sherlock showed up. Just as he set down, several servants came out bearing different dishes.

 

"I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I made sure to have them cook several different dishes. I apologize for my tardiness, I stayed up later after the party."

 

"I can't imagine what you were doing, Mr. Holmes," John answered amicably as he tucked into a lovely quiche and some waffles.

 

"Oh please, call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes ages me." Sherlock stood and began taking something from each of the different plates. John had all but smack the other man with a spoon to keep Sherlock from taking all the crepes.

 

"Oy, save some for me. And I don't see how you keep such a small frame if you eat like that," John remarked as Sherlock finally settled down to eat.

 

"Dr. Watson, what you see is very atypical of me. However, I am not working today, therefore I am famished." Sherlock then poured them both tea, which John gratefully accepted.

 

"Now now. That is hardly fair." A small smile quirked Sherlock's lips.

 

"Very well, John. But when I am working, I dislike eating. My mind becomes the focus of what I do. Everything else is transport." With that, he tucked into some eggs. They stayed in companionable silence for maybe 10 minutes an older woman entered the dining room.

 

"Good morning Sherlock. I'm glad to see that the mess was cleaned up as always. Oh, and you have such a large breakfast in front of you. I'm glad about that too. Oh, hello," the woman finally turned her attention to John. "You must be the fellow Sherlock mentioned earlier this morning."

 

"I didn't see Sherlock meet anyone else last night, so it must be me. John Watson," he introduced himself, shaking the woman's hand as she helped herself to breakfast.

 

"I'm Mrs. Hudson. I technically own this estate, but Sherlock has been good enough to give it life lately." With that she settled down to eat near Sherlock, and the three continued breakfast in comfortable silence.

  
  


After breakfast, Sherlock took John to tour most of the bottom floor. Mrs. Hudson joined them long enough to get to her own room, where they parted ways. As it turned out, that was one of the few rooms guests weren't allowed in during Sherlock's parties. They also passed the ballroom, which held a handsome organ that was played by the supposed heir of Mozart, if the grapevine was to be believed. Sherlock insisted that he was, though he was not the closest heir. Apparently there was a second that Sherlock hadn't found yet. And of course, that person, whomever he or she was, would be welcome to the residence to play. John quietly chuckled as Sherlock spoke of plans for sonatas and concertos. A great deal of it flew right over his head, but Sherlock always managed to keep him just enough in the loop, adding details and explanations whenever the doctor grew too confused.

 

After a tour of the downstairs, they took in parts of the upstairs, and one of the towers. John had never seen so many books in the same building his whole life, and that included every library he had ever known. None of them came close to the Holmes residence. Sherlock also provided a good deal of stimulating conversation. Apparently, they had both served in the English military around the same time, though John hadn't recognized Sherlock's division. At that moment, a manservant came into the room, announcing that a police chief had arrived. Sherlock sat up and set his tea aside before responding.

 

“At last,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “Send him in at once.” Now he turned his attention back to John. “This is what I do.” But before John could ask any questions, the a man came into the room. The man was dressed in the easily recognized blue police uniform. John would place him in his 40's, with signs of graying hair. The man gave John a strange look before focusing his attention on Sherlock.

 

"You have a case." Sherlock stated, staring out a nearby window at the bay.

 

"There's been a fourth suicide. This one left a note," the man replied.  John remembered glancing at the paper before he left his cottage and remembered seeing an article about a string of suicides.

 

"You're talking about the three suicides that were in the news? The ones that people are starting to think are linked?" John spoke, wishing to confirm his suspicions.

 

"Will you come, Mr. Holmes?" The man asked, ignoring John in favor of Sherlock.

 

"To answer your question, Dr. Watson, yes. And to ask you another, would you like to see my work?" Sherlock asked, and John had to blink.

 

"You would want me to come with you?"

 

"You are an exprienced army doctor. A second medical opinion wouldn't hurt," Sherlock casually told him. John glanced at the man in the doorway again, who seemed to be watching the entire exchange with an intense interest.

 

"Why not? I don't know how much stranger my day could get," John finally relinquished. His sister would insist that he really had gone mad.

 

"Very well then, Captain Lestrade. We will join you. Give me a moment to gather my things and inform Mrs. Hudson, and we will join you outside." With that, Captain Lestrade turned and walked back the way he came. Once the man left hearing range, Sherlock jumped into the air, giving a small whoop of jubilation.

 

"Come along, Dr. Watson! We have a case today!" With that, the man almost bounded from the room, John limping on his cane to keep up. The pair then went to Mrs. Hudson's room. John arrived in time to see her emerge.

 

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't know when I'll be back. There's been a fourth suicide. There's a serial killer in New York! Leave something for John and me tonight.”

 

“I'm not your housekeeper,” the woman insisted. “And it isn't right for you to be so happy, dashing about like this because of murders.” But the woman was chuckling and straightening Sherlock's long coat.

 

“Who cares, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock asked enthusiastically. “The game is on!” He shouted jovially, then kissed the matron on the cheek before dashing out the front of the house. John tipped his head towards Mrs Hudson and limped after Sherlock. Today would definitely be interesting.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

They rode with Captain Lestrade to the crime scene. By the time the pair reached the car, Sherlock had managed to contain his enthusiasm, but the Captain seemed to notice it either way, shaking his head as Sherlock hopped into the back of the squad car obediently.

 

"Who's on forensics today?"

 

"Anderson," Lestrade replied. Sherlock's good mood seemed to almost evaporate.

 

"Anderson doesn't work with me, and wherever he is, Donovan isn't far behind."

 

"Donovan?" John asked, confused.

 

"You'll understand when we get there," Sherlock said dismissively. And with that, the three sat silently through the rest of the drive into New York City.

 

When they finally reached the crime scene, the three men stepped out of the car and towards the crime scene, an apparently dilapidated old set of apartments. A demurely dressed Negro woman was waiting for them just outside of the building.

 

"Captain," she greeted Lestrade as he passed. But when her gaze turned to Sherlock, her gaze soured. She didn't even acknowledge him as he passed into the building. But as her gaze turned to John, a surprisingly strong hand stopped him from entering. "Sir, this is a crime scene, and only police are allowed inside with one," she shot a look at Sherlock, "notable exception."

 

"This is Dr. Watson. He's a colleague of mine. John, this is Donovan." Donovan scoffed at Sherlock.

 

"You don't have colleagues," she spat. "Did he follow you home? It's fairly easy to get rid of his kind, nothing a swift kick won't do." There was a very palpable hostility in the air, making John distinctly uncomfortable.

 

"Would you prefer that I just wait-" Sherlock cut John off before he could even finish a suggestion.

 

"No," Sherlock stepped around Donovan, holding the door open for John, "after you." And with that, John stepped into the crime scene. Sherlock quickly brushed past him and led him to a room where John and Sherlock hung their coats. After a moment, Captain Lestrade pulled Sherlock slightly aside, but John could still hear the conversation while Sally slipped in, standing in a corner.

 

“Who is he?” Lestrade asked.

 

“He's with me.” Sherlock calmly answered. Lestrade gave him a look.

 

“You aren't answering my question.”

 

“Yes I am,” Sherlock denied. “All you need to know is that Dr. Watson is a good physician, and he is with me.” Sherlock then crossed back across the room to join John, indicating that he was done with the conversation. With a sigh, Lestrade nodded and the group left the room.

 

Once they left, Sally led the three men up several flights of stairs. John's bad knee protested at one point, but he made due and finally reached the top of the stairs. Somewhere along the way, Captain Lestrade stepped aside, motioning for the others to continue. As the three stepped into the room, John saw a dark-haired man bent over the body. The body in question was a blonde woman wearing a shocking amount of pink, and in quite an alarming shade. The man stood after a moment more. Donovan was the first person he saw.

 

"Ah, Sally. I was just about to go downstairs and ask if the Captain had returned. I can guess he has, since you've returned." The man then focused on Sherlock, and the man formed a sneer before approaching. "I hope we are under an agreement. No contaminating the crime scene."

 

“Quite clear, Anderson. Now, if I may have access to the body?” Sherlock agreed.

 

“I already have half of my items set out. It will take Sally some time to move all of them, so you can wait outside or speak with Lestrade if you desire company,” Anderson answered, waving Sally over and Sherlock off.

 

“You don't need to move those items. You wish to discuss your theories on the murder with Donovan,” Sherlock replied. At the scandalized looks from Anderson and Donovan, and John's own look of surprise, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Anderson. It's obvious that she's incredibly intelligent, and that's why you bring her to crime scenes. She's more of a partner than an assistant. Any other assistant worth her wages would pick up on your routines within a week.” He waved them off as Anderson opened his mouth to speak. “No, personally I don't have any problems with that. The entire eugenics practice is riddled with flaws, bias, and inconsistencies. And while it is strange for her to be intelligent as a woman, it isn't impossible. Were she a man, I would vouch for her presence in the department, though even my eccentricities have their limit, so your best bet for her continued presence is not for my word to be added to her resume. But using the fact that you take her to work to corroborate your affair, it's rather dull. You both could be far more creative. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find a serial killer.” With that, Sherlock turned his attention back to the corpse, motioning for them to move. Slowly, the pair looked at each other before silently agreeing and moving for Sherlock. John can now see something scratched into the floor: 'N-O-T-M-L'. The man now set to examining the corpse, touching her coat and even her jewelry.

 

“I would like a moment for my colleague to privately investigate the corpse for himself,” Sherlock finally stated.

 

“And you would be?” Anderson prompted, finally turning to face John. Anderson had thick, dark hair framing his face, contrasting his pale complexion, but the man had quick, sharp eyes.

 

“Dr. John Watson.” John introduced himself, shaking hands with the man.

 

“Very well, it isn't often we get doctors examining the bodies at the scene of a crime,” Anderson allowed, and he and Sally left the room. Once they left, Sherlock motioned to the corpse, and John knelt down to begin his own inspection. He checked her for alcohol, for any sort of overt trauma, but the smell from her mouth wasn't normal. John took a deeper breath, trying to identify the smell. He couldn't identify it exactly, but he knew that whatever it was she ingested was poisonous. Now the next question: did someone force it down her throat or was it taken willfully? Lifting the woman slightly, he saw no bruises or other major indicators of force, so he finally straightened.

 

“Died some time last night, no signs of blunt trauma, there's a strange odor at her mouth though. Guessing from her position and what I can recall off the top of my head, I would say poison. I don't see any overt signs of it being forced down her throat, so she willfully ingested it.”

 

“Well done, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock praised, and John glanced back over in surprise. Lately, John had been on a streak of getting things wrong.

 

“Tell me then, what do you see?” John asked, but at the moment, Captain Lestrade walked back in.

 

“Do you have anything?” He asked them.

 

“Oh, plenty. Where did it rain yesterday night? Where's her planner? It should be in her carpetbag.”

 

“Uh, New Haven. And what carpetbag?”

 

“She'll have been carrying a carpetbag with her, containing a change of clothes. Nothing more than an overnight bag. She was here to have a love affair.”

 

“And you know that how?”

 

“Her ring has been regularly removed. Given the clean state of her other jewelry and the atrocious state of her wedding ring, it's an unhappy marriage with regular affairs. Her wedding ring is clean on the inside because she cleans it when she works it off for her affairs. See these water marks on her legs? Given the small splash patterns, it's from her carpetbag. Her coat is wet, even under the collar. So she turns up the collar of her coat against the elements and puts her bag down to do so. She picks it back up, the bottom of the bag is wet, dripping and splashing water onto her leg when it brushes by. So she's from New Haven, coming to Manhattan for an affair, and somehow winds up here against her will. She then ingests a poison, and with her dying energy scratches into the floor that she is a murder victim. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to complete her message.”

 

“How did you know about the message?” John finally asked, still astounded by his friend's ability.

 

“See there, 'N-O-T'. 'Not'. Then there's 'M-L'. Could be a set of initials, but you can see that she was moving her hand when she died. The only other letter that would make it make sense is 'E' instead of 'L', spelling out 'not me'. Her best way of signaling that while she ingested the poison, it wasn't willful. The only question is why would she wait so long to write it?” Sherlock frowns at the corpse for a few more moments. “Unless the killer was in the room with her, watching her take the poison, watching her for part of the time that she died. Now, where's her planner, it should give us more clues as to who her killer could be. Right now, all we know is that it's a stranger.”

 

“And you know that how?” Lestrade cut in.

 

“You haven't seen any obvious relationship between the other victims, yet it's the same 'suicide' repeated over and over again. Either someone is handing out suicide information, which is highly unlikely since none of them showed any signs previously, or they all came in contact with a serial killer. The latter is far more likely. Now, where is her carpetbag?”

 

“There was no carpetbag, Sherlock!” Captain Lestrade roared, frustrated. Sherlock, who had been looking at the body again, stood slowly and turned to the Captain.

 

“Say that again.”

 

“There was no carpetbag.”

 

“Of course there was. She was coming here for one night. Can't risk going home in something that could get dirty from her 'exertions'. So she's got a bag and a planner. A woman able to manage multiple lovers and multiple affairs would have everything written down. She wouldn't just wander off and hope she remembered everything. So where is it?!” Sherlock then stilled, placing his hands over his mouth. “Oh, unless the killer brought her here, drove her here and forgot that her bag was in his car. Oh that's brilliant! We find the bag, we find the killer! He was good up until now. But she was clever, she thought to leave us a message. And if we can find her bag, then we have a better chance of finding whoever killed her! Be on the lookout for a pink bag!” Sherlock then began bounding down the stairs, full of frantic energy.

 

“Why pink?” Lestrad asked, following with John on his heels.

 

“Come on! The woman coordinates her lipstick with her shoes. Anyone with any basic knowledge of fashion would know she wouldn't dare step out without a matching bag!” Sherlock shouted up at them. “Now hurry up, John! I have an idea of where we might look for our serial killer! I'll grab your coat!” With that, John sighed, clambering down the stairs as fast as he could.

 

“So where are we heading now?” John asked when he finally walked out of the building. Sherlock was waiting for him, his own coat already on and practically hopping on the spot in anticipation.

 

“I have a place in mind, little place in the Bronx. We'll grab a taxi there,” Sherlock responded, walking over the street and hailing a cab. When a cab pulled over for them, the pair slid into the seats and settled in for a ride to the Bronx.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

Once they reached their destination, Sherlock ducked into a small restaurant. Looking around, John would guess they served Italian food, though there wasn't much to go off of. But they were quickly seated at a table next to the window, and John did notice that a 'reserved' sign had been removed from the table. They were given two menus and the server boy walked off.

 

“I have an arrangement with the owner.” Sherlock looked up as another man approached the table. “Angelo.”

 

“Sherlock!” The owner, an older Italian man, greeted them enthusiastically, shaking the man's hand before reaching for John's hand. “You're in the company of a good man. He got me off a murder charge. The police were convinced it was me, but Sherlock proved me innocent.”

 

“The police officer had framed you, believing that your race would cinch your supposed guilt; I simply illuminated the truth.”

 

“You kept me out of jail. I'll get started on your favorite dish. My grandfather's recipe, kept in the family for generations,” Angelo insisted.

 

“Go ahead and make it for my friend. I'm on the case and won't be eating,” Sherlock said. John frowned. It had been hours since they'd eaten. Surely he was hungry.

 

“You should eat,” John insisted.

 

“I told you this morning, when I'm on a case, I don't eat. Everything else is transport,” Sherlock argued.

 

“Yes, but your mind needs to run on something. At least attempt to eat something small,” John countered. Sherlock sighed in defeat.

 

“Very well. Something small.” Angelo nodded.

 

“Don't worry Sherlock. Italian food isn't all heavy foods. I'll bring you something light. And don't worry about the bill. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.” With that, Angelo left them. About ten minutes later, Angelo brought out food for both of them. There was a light soup for Sherlock, and a flavorful pasta for John. But Sherlock paid little attention to his food, instead keeping his eye on the window, scanning the outside conditions. This, in turn, made John apprehensive, and after several mouthfuls, John's nerves began to wear.

 

Settled together, pretending to eat, John finally became uneasy. Everything was happening so quickly, almost as though he were in a natural disaster. But now that he had enough time to sit and think about what all had occurred during the day so far, he was becoming more and more curious about different things.

 

“You have questions,” Sherlock stated as John picked at his food.

 

“Yes. What are we doing here?”

 

“Waiting to see if my hunch is correct,” Sherlock answered quickly. “Next.”

 

“What is it that you do?” At that, John saw a hint of a smirk.

 

“How would you describe my work?”

 

“I would say that you're a detective,” John trailed off. He knew that his description wasn't quite right.

 

“But,” Sherlock motioned him on.

 

“But the police don't consult amateurs.” Sherlock was definitely smirking now.

 

“Consulting detective is what I call myself. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” John was truly beginning to wonder about the man's amount of vanity when it came to his intelligence.

 

“Which means?” John was now motioning.

 

“That whenever the police are in over their heads, which is always, they consult me.” And his job did nothing to take his ego down a notch, John thought privately. “And you are right. Police don't consult amateurs. You've seen me work at a crime scene; you've seen me figure out all those people who walk through my home.”

 

“True enough. So what exactly is this hunch?”

 

“If our suspect is as desperate as I believe him to be, he'll be on the lookout for more victims. He has to have a way to convince them. And looking at where he picked up all four of the victims, this is the best approximation of where I think he would pick the next victim up.”

 

“So you've seen where they were all picked up?”

 

“I've read the cases in the news, it's enough to go on. All of the victims were taken in well-lit, common areas of New York, but he's working his way south.”

 

“Why? He'd be insane to try to kidnap someone in broad daylight, not to mention in such a crowded area.”

 

“No, I think he's that brilliant. The brilliant ones are always so desperate to get caught.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Appreciation, applause, at long last, the spotlight! That is the frailty of genius: it needs an audience.” From the glitter in his eyes, John had to believe that Sherlock might suffer from the same, hence his love of crime scenes.

 

“I take it you know that fairly well,” John quipped, and Sherlock hummed in response. Relatively satisfied, John began to eat more of his meal. It was nearly dinner time, and John had his suspicions that they would go several more hours before there was another chance to eat.

 

“John, I think you should put your fork down.” Sherlock stated. John glanced at him, and saw that he was stock-still, like an animal ready to sprint after prey.

 

“Why?” John thought he knew the answer, but needed to hear it.

 

“I think I see our suspect.”

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“His walk, his approach to others. Calm and casual, yet when they aren't looking, calculated. No, don't look out the window. We can't both stare.”

 

“Then you stop staring so I can,” John insisted. Sherlock's lips quirked into a small smile, but quickly fell back into line.

 

“I think he found someone. Come on!” Sherlock was out of his seat before John could turn to look at the suspect. Unwilling to be left behind again, John leapt out of his chair and hurried out after Sherlock. Sherlock had already vaulted over a car that nearly ran him over, but was still now. John shouted a quick apology to the driver as he ran up to Sherlock.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He got into a cab. Won't be able to run after the car.”

 

“So what do we do?”

 

“Thinking.” After a few seconds, Sherlock took off in a direction. “This way!” Sherlock then took off again. John took off after the crazed man, feeling slightly like a young recruit. They ran through several alleyways, climbing up stairs. There was even a very clever rooftop jump. They ran for quite some time, and at one point, John nearly got lost. Sherlock's well-timed shout kept him from running in the wrong direction.

 

Finally, Sherlock dashed out into a street, all but throwing himself at a taxi. John, in concern, dashed out after him, but Sherlock was already heading to the back of the cab, demanding that they open up and flashing something at them. The door opened, and Sherlock ordered a man out before he ordered the same of the driver. But as the driver looked out, John knew he was ready to panic and flee. But before he pushed down the gas, John pulled his gun, pointing at the driver and issuing his own order to turn the car off and get out. Knowing they were defeated, both men sat quietly. As John glanced in the seat, he saw a woman laid out, already half strewn across the seat and partly undressed.

 

“John, see to the woman. She may have already been poisoned.” Sherlock stretched out his hand, and John handed the gun over. He then scrambled into the cab. If she was poisoned, they would have to work quickly to save her. But as John began to look her over, he smelled the culprit: a rag soaked in chloroform. She needed fresh air more than anything, so John rolled down the windows and carried the rag out of the cab.

 

“Chloroform. Not like the murderer.” Sherlock's head snapped to the cab, taking in the scene before looking at the rag in John's hand.

 

“Different criminals then.” Sherlock's shoulders momentarily slumped, then straightened again. “Either way, best to fetch a cop. I'll make sure they don't do anything.” Nodding, John turned to run down the street. Fortunately, he found one at the corner, and was able to quickly explain the situation. The cop climbed into his car and brought it around to the taxi, handcuffing both men and putting them in the backseat.

 

By that time, the woman was waking up, and John helped her sit up and rearrange her clothes. Obviously, she was shaken, but John was able to calm her enough to get her to ride with the policeman and give her statement at the station. When the car finally pulled away, Sherlock and John leaned against the brick wall, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

 

“We just caught two men committing a crime when we were looking for someone committing a different crime.” The statement was so odd, John had to say it.

 

“Well, you go fishing for criminals, you can never be certain as to which type you catch.” He stated it almost lazily, as though he were talking about actual fish. Laughter bubbled out of John's throat, and after a few moments, Sherlock joined in.

 

“That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,” John confessed.

 

“And you invaded France.” This started another shared moment of inappropriate giggles, and then the two sighed and stopped. “And I knew it.”

 

“Knew what?”

 

“That your limp could be coaxed into remission.” John blinked at him a few times before it finally clicked: he'd run all over New York just now, and his limp had vanished. He wasn't even sure how Sherlock had known that was possible, but at this point, John wasn't going to doubt it.

 

“So how did you get them to open the cab? What did you show them?” John asked, subtly changing the subject. Sherlock pulled out the object he flashed, which turned out to be a police identification card. But it read 'Captain Lestrade'.

 

“I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I have several.”

 

“So will you pickpocket me when I become boring?”

 

“Most definitely,” Sherlock assured, handing John his gun back. “Now, let's head back to Angelo's. We'll see if we can catch the criminal we're after on the walk there. If not, we'll start walking somewhere else.” And with that, they walked back, sticking to the main roads.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

So they spent all evening running around New York City. At first it was quite dull. But eventually they were led on another chase through back alleys. Sherlock's knowledge continued to impress John as they made their way through winding corridors and past several surprised families. The weight of the gun John carried with him stayed just where he needed it: far enough to allow him other thoughts, yet close enough to remind him of its presence. He was glad that this limp, however strong it had been before, was gone. It added new vim and vigor into his life, as did Sherlock himself. But a particularly stubborn gate rose up to stop them. As they ran up, John saw that it was locked. And neither man could reach it on his own. So as the reached the gate, John knelt down.

 

"Let me boost you." He cupped his hands, ready for Sherlock to step.

 

"What about you?"

 

"I'm heavier and shorter. You wouldn't make it over." John could give Sherlock just enough of a boost to get over, but they would be stranded on opposite sides. After a moment of debate, Sherlock nodded and took John's offer. Drawing on his military strength, John lifted Sherlock as high as he could, which was just enough for Sherlock to swing one long limb over the gate before the rest of him followed.

 

"Two streets over should give you an out!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted after the culprit. John nodded and turned around, finding the closest perpendicular street to cross. John then had to try to track Sherlock from where he took off. But as it turned out, both men had stopped fairly close to where John last saw them.

 

But as John finally saw Sherlock, he stopped, hoping that the suspect wouldn't hear him. Sherlock was facing John, and the culprit facing into the alley. As John's eyes adjusted better to the ill-lit alley crossroads and the moonlit alleys, he saw that the culprit somehow had Sherlock pinned.

 

“Your friend won't find you now. He has too many guesses to make, and his footfalls have already died off. He's heading to the east and will reach the street before he realizes he's lost us. Now Mr. Holmes, are you ready to play the same game as my victims?” The culprit, an older man, spoke calmly and confidently. John didn't like any of this, and was quickly realizing that the detective may need his help.

 

“Why do you play this game with them? That is my question.” Sherlock affirmed, keeping his eyes firmly on the culprit and not on John. John took the opportunity to quietly move to the side, revealing why Sherlock hadn't moved: the man had a gun pointed at Sherlock.

 

“Why does any man go to great lengths? To solve his problems. I think we share that problem: boredom. We're both geniuses, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“And you are attempting to remedy your genius with your prognosis,” Sherlock finished. “But I never fancied having a fan of my detective work. Might I ask what recommended you to me?”

 

“Mr. Holmes, I only became a fan after I was introduced to your work. And even then, that was after I was hired.”

 

“Hired?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I was hired. You have several fans. I'm a father raising three children on my own. The doctors tell me I will die, and I have no other way of making enough money to keep all of them happy and healthy. But if I continue on this, my benefactor has promised them a good life.”

 

“Love: one of the most vicious motivators.”

 

“It most certainly kept you busy. And now to our test: one bottle contains a dose of poison, while the other contains harmless medicine. You choose the bottle you take, and I take the remaining dose.” The culprit now pocketed his gun and pulled two vials out of his coat. John shifted closer to the pair, hoping to sneak up on the man if Sherlock gave him enough time. “Now then Mr. Holmes, my client told me he was quite bored, but that he enjoyed watching other dance. It distracted him. Are you properly distracted?” Sherlock snatched one of the bottles, which made the other man chuckle and made John's stomach clench. “Interesting choice. Care to find out if you're right?” John couldn't stand there any longer. He stepped out of the alley and into the crossroads.

 

“Don't think anyone's going to find out without very careful chemical tests. Hand away from the gun; I saw it earlier.” The culprit's shoulders sagged as he placed his hands in the air. “And for the record, I didn't turn east. I just stopped running.” John finally took a moment to look at Sherlock, who smirked at him. “You alright, Sherlock?” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak when the other man's shout rang out. He had collapsed to the pavement, clutching his head.

 

“That's the aneurism. He doesn't have long to live. He'll hemorrhage out of his brain. I doubt he'll make it to the hospital, but I might get another answer or two out of him.” Sherlock then turned the man over, clutching at his shirt to look into his eyes.

 

“Who is your sponsor?” Sherlock demanded. The man turned slightly to vomit, but Sherlock didn't care.

 

“You're dying! I need a name!” Sherlock shouted. The man grabbed his head again.

 

“A name!” Sherlock roared, grabbing one arm and twisting painfully.

 

“MORIARTY!” The dying man cried. With that, Sherlock let go of him. The other man immediately fell into seizures, lasting another minute before he passed into unconsciousness. John quietly approached and felt for a pulse. It was racing, dangerously so, but there was nothing they could do for the man. As another minute passed, the pulse slowed and stopped.

 

“What is 'moriarty'?” John finally asked, standing from the corpse.

 

“No idea,” Sherlock answered dreamily. “They'll need to take the body. I'll stay here to mark it. Make sure no passers-by are too perturbed and run away with it. You'll have to go to the street to find a constable. Try heading east.” John thought of telling him that no one would see a corpse and think to steal it, but John had just had a very strange twenty four hours. So there was now a distinct possibility of corpse-stealing citizens stumbling across an unprotected corpse. So John turned around and tried to find his way east through the maze of alleys they ran down to find their suspect. What John wouldn't give for a police box right about now.

 

“Dr. Watson?” A female voice called out as he passed one alley. This stopped John, hoping he had finally found someone connected to the police and Lestrade.

 

“That's me. Are you connected to the police? We found-” John was cut off by a small motion from the woman.

 

“Come with me. Everything will be explained.” She turned on her heel and walked away. After a moment's hesitation, John followed. The pair walked through the alleys before finally reaching the street. When they reached the street, they walked up to a man standing near a car. He opened the door for them. The woman climbed in, and the man motioned for John to join her. When John reluctantly climbed in, the woman leaned back towards the door.

 

“Make sure the police know where he is. They found the killer, but he's dead now,” she informed him. The man nodded and closed the door. John felt the car move, and tried to look out the window in the hopes of finding his bearings.

 

“So, you know my name.” John broke the silence after a few minutes. “What's your name?” The woman beside him had pulled out a small book and been writing in it since they took off.

 

“Err … Anthea.” She replied. John didn't believe her for a moment. He'd seen enough patients walk into the clinic and hesitate before giving a name. None of them ever gave their real names.

 

“Any point in asking where I'm going?” It certainly wouldn't hurt to ask.

 

“None at all,” she answered without looking up from her writing.

  
  


Some time later, they pulled up to an abandoned warehouse. John had tried to remember the way he came, but there was no way. She gestured to the door, and John climbed out. As he climbed out, a few lights turned on, revealing a well-dressed man and a chair. Straightening his back, John approached the man.

 

“Have a seat, Dr. Watson. Or do you prefer to be called John?” John chose to continue standing.

 

“I have a mailbox. I have a permanent address. I even have a workplace. You could contact me at any of those places. I don't know if your people noticed, but I was a touch busy.”

 

“I made sure that Captain Lestrade found Sherlock. They will be examining the body and taking Sherlock's statement. No doubt yours will be quite similar to Sherlock's. Not to mention, this will be one of the few times Sherlock will be occupied. So I may have this conversation uninterrupted. Please, John, sit.”

 

“I don't want to.” His leg felt fine and he honestly felt like leaving this place.

 

“You don't seem very afraid.”

 

“You don't seem very frightening.”

 

“Ah yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?” Neither answered the question, so the stranger instead moved on. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“He's my neighbor. Though  I only met him last night.”

 

“And since last night, you're solving crimes with him. Dare I ask when you're moving in?” This man was really starting to annoy John.

 

“Might I ask who you are?” John changed the subject swiftly, refusing to dignify the question without an explanation as to who the bloody hell thought they could interrogate him.

 

“An interested party.” John had to actively fight the urge to roll his eyes at the suit standing in front of him.

 

“In Sherlock? Why? I wouldn't guess as a friend.” What friend of Sherlock's would ever treat his acquaintances this way?

 

“An enemy. And according to him, an arch-enemy. He does enjoy drama.” John couldn't hold back the eye roll or his sarcasm anymore.

 

“Well, thank God you're above all that.” This earned John a look of reproach from the other man who still refused to name himself.

 

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business.” Hopefully this twat would take the hint and leave him alone.

 

“It could be.” The man was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work.

 

“It really isn't.” Hopefully this would a flashing sign to the other man.

 

“If it helps, I could offer you a sum of money to ease your financial burdens in exchange for information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing that makes you uncomfortable. Just what Sherlock is up to.” Because that wasn't mysterious or able to bite both John and Sherlock in the rear at any given moment.

 

“Why?” John asked.

 

“I worry about him. Constantly.” John huffed in response, and the man seemed to glare at him for a moment. “Though I would prefer that my concern go unmenitoned. We have a difficult relationship.”

 

“I can only imagine. My answer is no.”

 

“I haven't mentioned a figure.” As if to show his generosity, the man pulled out a checkbook.

 

“I said no.” That at least made the man put the checkbook away.

 

“You are quite loyal for only meeting the man last night.”  
“I'm simply not interested. Are we done?” John was almost beginning to think this would never end.

 

“Are we?” John took that as a dismissive gesture and turned to leave. “I can easily guess that others have warned you away from him. But given your left hand, that won't happen.”

 

“Why would my left hand tell you that?” John turned back.

 

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. In the army, they thought you wouldn't be able to operate again because of the tremor. The doctors there thought you were haunted by memories of your military service.” John stopped dead in his tracks.

 

“How the hell do you know that?” John walked back up to the man, definitely in his personal space, but there was no way John would leave now without an answer.

 

“They're wrong; it's the other way around. You're under stress right now, and your hand is steady. You aren't haunted by the War.” The man leaned into his space now. “You miss it.” Something about how well the man knew him made John's stomach turn. So John turned around and went back to the car.

 

“Welcome back, Dr. Watson,” the man called to his retreating back as John climbed in the car.

 

“I'm to take you back,” the woman told him cheerfully, as if the entire episode outside hadn't happened.

 

“Good.” John responded, more than hopeful for a silent ride back.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to my primary beta, codenamelazarus over on Tumblr. You totally pulled my head out of my butt and this thing looks reasonable because she spent so much time on it with me.

Chapter 7

 

After some time, the car pulled up to next to the crime scene John had been pulled from, and he was finally able to make sure that Sherlock was alright and ensure that the police had been summoned. Sure enough,the strange woman had kept her word, and John could see Sherlock further down the street, talking to Captain Lestrade. John got out, nodding at the woman before slamming the door, hoping to never see another car like that again. He walked towards Sherlock, lifting an arm in greeting when Sherlock looked his way. Sherlock immediately caught John's gaze, but after a moment, his expression turned hard as he pushed past Lestrade. Sherlock crossed the distance between them, and John hurried to help meet the man in the middle. What John didn't expect was for Sherlock to grab him by the front of his jacket, almost lifting him bodily from the ground and shaking him lightly.

 

“Where the hell have you been?!” Sherlock demanded, and John quickly moved to distance himself from his obviously agitated friend.

 

“Trying to get back here,” he responded.

 

“In a car,” he spat. The man looked at John, the detective’s grey eyes boring into him, obviously searching for a lie, before his features softened and his posture slackened. “You aren't lying. What happened then? Someone else brought Lestrade to the body, and he said he hadn't seen you.” John opened his mouth to explain when another voice abruptly joined the conversation.

 

“You'll have to pardon John. I wished to speak with him, and I saw a viable opportunity.” It was the same man from the warehouse, and Sherlock immediately turned his full attention to the new person.

 

“In the middle of an investigation?!” Sherlock stammered indignantly.

 

“The suspect was dead; there was no cause for concern. I had some of my people ensure that the police found you,” the man said in what was probably meant to be an assuring tone, but no one present interpreted it as such.

 

“Mycroft, do stay out of my way when I'm on a case. You, of all people, should know better than to interrupt me.”

 

“Of course, brother mine. Which is why I waited to speak with Dr. Watson until the end of the case.”

 

“And you felt the need to drag him aside and question him because” Sherlock waved, indicating that he wanted – Wait a second, John thought, mind screeching to a halt.

 

“Brother? You two are siblings?” John interrupted.

 

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock intoned, glaring at Mycroft, who looked like he was staring at a squabbling child.

 

“Well, neither of us can change those facts, nor that I worry about you and the company you keep. I do what I must to see to it that you do no lasting damage to yourself.” Sherlock scoffed. “Perhaps you've never realized just how much good the two of us can do if we were to work together.”

 

“We've worked together before. I dare say my co-workers were more than pleased whenever our interactions ceased.”

 

“Our petty feud is childish, and you know that it upsets Mummy.” A look of outrage crossed Sherlock's face, his mouth dropping open for a moment.

 

“I upset her?” He repeated, flabbergasted. “It wasn't me who upset her!”

 

“So, he's your brother and not the head of a criminal organization,” John clarified, still unsure if he should trust the second man. Sherlock scoffed, smirking.

 

“Close enough,” Sherlock answered. Mycroft gave another exasperated sigh.

 

“For goodness sake, I occupy a minor position in the British consulate,” Mycroft recitedwearily, clearly tired of having to make the distinction.

 

“He is the British consulate, when he isn't busy running the CIA on a freelance basis. He still gets correspondence from England, asking for assistance on rebuilding and whether he wants to relocate back to England now that the War is over.” John glanced from one to the other, suddenly noticing the resemblance as they continued to bicker.

 

“And yet here we both are.” Mycroft then checked his watch. “You should hurry home though. Your next party is due to start fairly soon.”

 

“The staff know what to do.” Sherlock waved the concern off. “They'll let the champagne slow to a trickle, the performers will leave early, and everyone else will leave on their own. Normal people aren't curious enough to explore the house without the courage of alcohol, and the angry ones are easy enough to stop. The house should be clearing as we arrive.” John felt a little skeptical about the plan, and Sherlock picked up on it, directing his next statement at the doctor. “We’ll just enter through the gate between our properties, and it's as though the party simply fizzled out on its own.”

 

“There's a gate between your home and mine?” John asked, his own curiosity peaked. That was, until he realized that meant that Sherlock had much easier access to his house and that he hadn’t been told about this entrance when he had rented the property. The thought unnerved him for a few moments.

 

“Yes, I'll show you tonight. Should I get a case that comes late in the evening, would you like me to come and wake you?” John blinked and then thought for a few moments before he  nodded. He had free time before work. It could be interesting. And who else would keep Sherlock from doing anything extra stupid? Sherlock's face broke out into a grin in response, lighting up the taller man's face, chasing away his frown lines. His smile was contagious, and John felt his face start to mirror Sherlock's grin. And for a few moments, the crime scene and everyone at it faded away.

 

“So,” John decided to break the silence, turning his face away to regain his composure. “Have you got all the paperwork done with Captain Lestrade?”

 

“Yes. We should be able to head back now if you've had enough of the city for today.”

 

“I think I've had enough excitement today to need a good cuppa before bed. Care to join me for one?”

 

“Tempted, but I think my place will have enough food. I'm famished after a case.” As if to agree, Sherlock's stomach growled.

 

“Well then, let's head back.” With that, Sherlock turned towards the street, walking away from Mycroft, and John quickly followed after him. Sherlock then threw out an arm, hailing a taxi within moments.

 

The ride home was pleasant enough, with Sherlock retelling his favorite parts of the night, and John continuing to lavish him with praise. But as the taxi pulled up to their homes, John felt his evening begin to dull. Sherlock’s estate was empty, though it still possessed a majestic air even with half of the lights turned off. His own cottage felt small and barely worth noting in comparison to the magnificence of Sherlock’s castle. But still, he dutifully climbed out, pulling out his wallet to help Sherlock pay for the fare before his money was waved off.

 

“Well, I suppose this is good night, Sherlock.” John held out his hand, hoping to make the parting swift. If he lingered too long in his neighbor’s lawn, he would want an excuse to spend more time with Sherlock.

 

“I told you I would show you the gate between our homes, didn’t I?” Sherlock interrupted, slipping a hand around John’s elbow, directing the man into his home. “Should be able to make some tea and find something to eat, so long as the staff haven’t moved everything in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson always leaves something cold when she knows I’ve finished a case.”

 

“Glad someone will keep you from going hungry.” John replied as they entered the kitchen.While John doubted that Sherlock spent much time here, he could tell that all of the appliances were top of the line. Still, it was interesting to watch Sherlock ferret around, clearly not remembering the layout of the kitchen very well. He even growled a few times, muttering that the various staff members had moved different things. But in the end, Sherlock was able to procure a meal and tea for both of them, and they sat and ate in companionable silence.

 

After their meal, the pair began to walk around the ground floor of Sherlock’s residence, strolling leisurely. John inspected random elements about the house, while Sherlock would occasionally state facts about the items around them, discussing original owners or how different pieces found their way into Sherlock’s possession. After several rooms of this, Sherlock grabbed what John had originally thought was a prop, but turned out to be a real violin. He rosined his bow before he looked around the room thoughtfully.

 

“Not here,” he murmured, before walking out of the room, striding towards the back of the house. John trotted after him, interested as to where Sherlock was going at this time of night. His curiosity was rewarded when Sherlock finally walked out and onto his back patio, looking at his surroundings for a few moments before nodding. “This will do.” From there, he began to play, and John was stunned. The man clearly had a gift for playing, and John took a seat. He had no clue how long Sherlock would play, so he figured it was better to allow himself some comfort. After some time, Sherlock’s playing shifted, his notes becoming more subtle and nuanced. John closed his eyes, smiling in Sherlock’s direction to let him know that he was still listening.

 

John’s eyes next opened to find Sherlock staring at him from an almost-uncomfortably close distance. “I was wondering how much longer you would sleep after I stopped playing. Most sleep a lot longer; then again, most aren’t as interested. Your body noticed the lapse in music.” John blinked away his fatigue, sitting straighter, and Sherlock backed away from him, putting a few paces between them.

 

“My apologies. I hadn’t realized I was falling asleep.” He motioned to Sherlock. “Please keep playing, it’s quite mesmerizing.”

 

“No, no. You’re obviously tired. It doesn’t do me any good to have an exhausted doctor at a crime scene. He’ll fall asleep staring at the body or risk contaminating the crime scene with excess saliva.” The rib was gentle, but John still gave Sherlock a wounded look. The pair then stood, and after John took a moment to stretch, they walked from the pool down a side path John hadn’t seen before. Soon they reached a small, latched gate, and John could see his property just on the other side.

 

“I can purchase a lock for the gate, if it makes you feel more comfortable.” John nodded; it would. “Of course, I’ll make sure that you have a copy of the key for yourself. But I will possess the only other copy, with a possible exception for Mrs. Hudson, with your permission.”

 

“I don’t see why not.” John saw no reason to doubt the landlady. Stepping through the gate, Sherlock nodded, and John knew he’d have a key as soon as Sherlock could arrange for a locksmith to come by. But as the silence stretched between them, John couldn’t find a reason to turn away. New York was wonderful this time of year, and while the blossoms were finally fading, a few late bloomers still offered their perfume to the night air.

 

“Thank you,” John finally said. Sherlock blinked.

 

“For what?” He asked, confused.

 

“For tonight, for yesterday. For everything. Just today has changed everything.” After a few beats of hesitation, John added. “Thank you for the invitation.”

 

“Any time, Dr. Watson. The pleasure has been all mine,” Sherlock replied sincerely. John watched a slow, small smile creep across his face, as though the happiness were slowly spreading through his body.

 

“You’ve, um.” John hesitated, unable to word exactly what was wrong with Sherlock’s hair. There were flowers from the trees above them. Sherlock continued to blink at him until John reached out and plucked the offending flower from his hair, fixing the errant lock with his spare fingers.

 

“There.” John announced as he brought the flower into Sherlock’s field of vision. For a few seconds, Sherlock continued to blink at John, as though he were searching for a response.

 

Eventually he replied with a soft, “Thank you.” He looked up and stammered, “I suppose I should move out from under the tree.”

 

“I should probably head on home then,” John agreed. “Best to get some sleep.”

  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Since we’re done for tonight, rest. There seems to be a never-ending stream of criminals to be stopped, and we must be properly rested to deal with them.” And with that, both men turned and walked into their homes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we finally get some background on these characters. For some reason, Sherlock likes to solve crimes more than he likes to talk about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hello more thanks to give. Here, I need to give so much help to iolre, codenamelazarus, and puplockandcoke on Tumblr because they helped check if I was doing the right thing here. Puplockandcoke helped me brit-pick this chapter since I was getting into British territory. Thank you again, lovely ladies!

Chapter 8

That morning, John woke up and stretched out lazily in his bed. He had another day off before he was due at the clinic, and he was grateful for the time off. He then got up and made himself breakfast, still in his dressing gown. He was just finishing his paper when someone knocked on his door. Looking through the window, John saw that it was one of Sherlock's staff.

 

“How can I help you? Does Sherlock have another case he needs me to consult on?” John asked when he opened the door.

 

“No, sir. However, he asks if you would wish to enjoy a day in the city,” the staff responded.

 

“I think I would. We could use a relaxing day in town. I'll get dressed, and he can come over when he's ready.” It sounded like a good idea to John.

 

“Very well. I will inform Mr. Holmes.” With that, the man bowed slightly and turned around. John closed the door and hurried to get ready and dressed in something that he could run around New York City in. Lord only knew what Sherlock had in store for him today. He had only just finished getting ready when he heard the roar of a lively engine come barreling down his path. In his shock at the sound of the motor, John dashed to the window. But before he could quite make it, Sherlock's laugh greeted his ears. His friend had to be driving the car, so John dashed downstairs to see what it was. Bounding out the door, John was greeted by the sight of Sherlock grinning at him from one of the most expensive cars John had seen on the streets of New York: a Duesenburg, and in beautiful running condition from what he'd heard of the engine.

 

“Do you fancy a car ride, John?” Sherlock asked from the driver's seat of the most ridiculous color on a vehicle John had ever seen: a bright yellow that drove any onlooker to distraction. John adjusted his hat.

 

“You said to expect some fun in town. I thought we might catch a ferry coming over.” Sherlock smirked at him.

 

“Doubt it. Though if you were set on it, we can park this next to the ferry.” John held both of his hands up in a placating gesture as he approached the car.

 

“I'm not saying we have to. I'm fine with you driving this into New York.”

 

“Thought you would.” Sherlock quipped as John climbed in. “Hold onto your hat. I don't take this out for Sunday strolls.” With that, Sherlock took off, throwing the car through its gears as they went tearing down the road.

 

“So, I know that I left out a great deal of information about myself over the course of yesterday. Had a long conversation with Mycroft about it after you returned to your cottage. Apparently, normal people like to know normal facts about the people they're going to run around with. I felt I should offer you this opportunity as well.” He glanced over at John, who was gripping his seat quite tightly and keeping his eyes on the road. “You don't need to be so concerned. I drive it all the time around here. I didn't drive yesterday because it's easily recognized. Didn't want the killer to know that we were there.”

 

“Do you always drive like this?” John asked as they swerved to avoid a slow-moving truck carrying watermelons. The boys driving the truck all cheered as they passed, and Sherlock lifted a hand to wave to them.

 

“I am driving one of the finest cars in all of New York. She was custom built to my specifications. If I cannot drive her to the specifications I made her, why bother driving at all?” At that, John threw a hand up in defeat, the other still clutching to his hat.

 

“I'm guessing all the locals know your car by now.”

 

“Of course, those lot also know me because they sell some of the best watermelons in New York City. I should make sure the staff stop by market tomorrow and grab some.”

 

By now, they had passed some of the smaller roads and were instead flying through another neighborhood, though not as affluent. The houses were worth less the closer they got to the ash piles, and so the land was cheaper to buy, allowing others a chance to say they lived near West Egg with the caveat of breathing worse air.

 

“I doubt you want to have this conversation over the engine, and I feel like enjoying the fresh air, so how about we discuss these things over lunch? I'll find us a nice place in New York City.” John glanced over to see Sherlock flash a cheeky grin at him.

 

“That sounds good,” John shouted to ensure he was heard, and both men turned their eyes back to the road.

 

Once they were in New York City, Sherlock did slow down, but only to ensure that he did not lose control of the vehicle with the additional presence  of so many more cars. In the middle of their trip through New York, John heard police sirens behind them. But as the motorcycle pulled up beside them, Sherlock showed a card to the police officer, whose eyes grew wider than saucers before he nodded.

 

“I’ll be sure to recognize you next time, Mr. Holmes!” The officer said before he drove away to monitor traffic again.

 

“Dare I ask how you can do that?” Sherlock grinned at John before making another sharp turn.

 

“I helped solve a very perplexing triple homicide in the US embassy in Portugal without having to visit the crime scene, so the commissioner owes me a favor.”

 

“You’ll have to tell me about that one, Sherlock.”

 

“All in good time, John. All in good time,” Sherlock assured him. The rest of the ride was spent with John attempting to guess where they would eat without asking Sherlock. By the time they pulled up to a high-end restaurant, John wasn’t sure if he should be surprised. He knew for sure that a simple meal at the restaurant was more than three months of his salary and army pension combined.

 

The atmosphere inside was unmistakeably posh. Golden leaves trimmed the walls and chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while fine linen tablecloths and polished silver candle-holders adorned the tables. The maitre’d greeted John with a momentarily raised eyebrow before Sherlock stood next to him.

 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. Table for two?”

 

“Yes.” They were then guided to a secluded table in the corner. The maitre’d left them alone with their menus for only a few minutes before a waiter appeared. John had only been able to glance at the menu, but the lack of prices on the menu seemed to leave him a touch more anxious than before. Each meal had looked decadent, which left his mouth watering, but he was still anxious about the tab at the end of the meal. There was no way that John could afford his meal.

 

Just as the waiter turned to take John’s order, Sherlock spoke. “We’ll both have the steak special. Mine medium well with béarnaise sauce, and his with red wine sauce. John, do you like your steak cooked medium,” Sherlock calmly asked, as though they had planned the whole thing. John blinked for a moment before he remembered to answer.

 

“Medium rare.”

 

“We’ll also have the oysters for an appetizer. I’ve been insisting that we go here the entire ride from West Egg,” the detective confided to the waiter. “So since John didn’t really have a choice, I’ll pick up the tab.” It was a neat little trick, though John wasn’t so easily fooled.

 

“Sherlock, I can -” Sherlock cut him off, taking his menu gently from his hands and handing it to the waiter.

 

“John, you really don’t have much of a choice,” The man replied, a slight grin on his face and a glint in his eyes. “He really doesn’t. Make sure to put the bill on my tab.” The waiter grinned, as though in on the joke, and walked off with their order. “You’ll like the oysters. They’re always flavored with different seasonal herbs. And the steak comes with potatoes that have a lovely seasoning.” John shook his head and admitted defeat.

 

The pair only waited ten minutes for their oysters. The entire plate steamed, which surprised John to no end, but Sherlock only gave an approving nod, and the waiter left them alone.  John decided to strike up their planned conversation over their oysters.

 

“So tell me about yourself then, Sherlock. What part of England did you grow up in?” John asked. They should have time to talk some before their meal arrived.

 

“Sussex Downs is where the family's summer estate is. We split our time between there and London growing up. Of course, I was sent off to boarding school when I was old enough.”

 

“Were you,” John trailed off, not wanting to seem impolite.

 

“Different? Oh yes. Though the only reason we knew I was different was because our parents had tried to find us playmates a few years before then. Dreadful mistake.” John chuckled.

 

“Oh, I can only imagine. Your mother must have been stretched thin trying to deal with both of you.”

 

“Not as thin as you would think. Though we did get a new nanny every year. They never believed our mother when she said we were different. The worst one lasted a month. We didn't like her and she didn't like us at all. After that, Mummy became much adept at selecting nannies.”

 

“So I can guess that school was quite boring for you.”

 

“Dreadfully.” Sherlock's tone, acidic and also slightly hurt, caused John to lean in further.

 

“Care to elaborate?” John gently prodded.

 

“If you're hoping for a charming tale, you won't find it,” Sherlock answered tartly as he took another drink.

 

“I'm not pressing you for anything more than you're willing to tell.” At that, Sherlock's lips thinned, a sign that John was beginning to connect with deep thought and careful consideration. After a long while, Sherlock spoke.

 

“I barely got along with Mycroft. Of course, I had immense trouble at school. It seems to be a common theme that others do not react well to something they do not understand. And my abilities were beyond any of the adults' comprehension, much less my peers'. So I was frequently ostracized and beaten. That in turn fueled my desire to learn various ways of defending myself. All of the cleaning maids knew to leave my room alone lest they come away with uniforms tainted by stink-bombs and cleaning equipment inadvertently destroyed when tampering with delicate experiments.” John could picture the scene, like something out of Frankenstein, with a booby-trapped laboratory. “University went a fair bit better. I had an arrangement with most of the professors that allowed both of us to walk away from the courses with our sanity intact. While my peers still didn't respect me and the professors were all wary of me, there is a great deal more social freedom in university than in secondary school.”

 

“I can imagine that you were more than glad to leave all those gits behind,” John commented. Sherlock's abilities were unique and sometimes concerning, but overall, Sherlock was not a man with evil intent.

 

“Honestly, after university and the dull of having to interact with people,” he pronounced the word with particular venom, “I was quite happy to join my brother in fighting the War.” John was about to comment when their food arrived. Both men took the time to sample their meals and assure the waiter that the food was cooked to their satisfaction before they had another chance to speak privately.

 

"So you were part of the war effort as well?" John finally asked around a bit of his meal.

 

"Of course. Mycroft practically threw me at M.I.5 once I turned 18. Most of the time, I didn't enjoy working for them. But during the war, it kept me from being bored."

 

“So Mycroft was involved with the military as well?”

 

“Of course. He'd been working his way into the government, and was able to point them to my expertise once I was 18. And once Mycroft had got as much use as he ever would out of me, he requested to be transferred to the British Consulate in New York. And when they moved him, he dragged me with him. Took me a while to find appropriate work, but I found what I needed.”

 

"And what would happen when you got bored in the military?"

 

"All manner of things. Though I was never allowed to poison the food."

 

"I'm sure that broke many hearts."

 

"When I couldn't poison the Germans? It broke many hearts. But they figured it was better to give me a blanket rule than risk losing a Wednesday. Happened once during a training session."

 

“Dare I ask what happened?”

 

“I may have tested various drugs with psychotropic effects on my fellows one day by lining everyone's teacup with the various substances.” John gave Sherlock an affronted look, and Sherlock shrugged in response. “It was a very interesting experiment. I was on my feet all day, corralling them and noting each of their reactions. I very nearly lost two of them, they were beating at the door and it threatened to give under their exertions. But I was able to convince them that they didn't want to escape.”

 

“How?” John was shaking his head, unsure if he really wanted to know, but insatiably curious nonetheless.

 

“I put on a shirt the same color as the door. They reacted quite violently to the color, and I was able to draw them away from the door. I instead locked them in a room lacking that color.”

 

“Of course,” John responded. “Why didn't I think of that?” He then held a hand to stop Sherlock from replying, a witty retort already half-formed on his lips. “That was rhetorical. So how did M.I.5 go? What sort of missions did you do for them?”

 

“Mostly reconnaissance. Sneaking in far past enemy territory, spying on generals and relaying information. That sort of thing.” Sherlock rattled it off as though it were routine for him. “Generally things that weren't boring. “

 

“I can only imagine. I'm sure there were several who were terrified.” Sherlock shrugged in a blasé manner.

 

“It wasn't that bad. You needed to know the languages, which didn't take long. You needed to know how to pick up a disguise, which didn't take that long either. And then intelligence gathering was second nature to me. Honestly, it was the thrill of the chase, of giving chase, of nearly getting caught that made the War interesting.”

 

“And how often did you do that? Nearly getting caught?” John asked, a brow raised.

 

“Oh stop it, you sound like Mycroft,” Sherlock chided. “Though that's where one of the rumors is partly right,” he added, more of an afterthought.

 

“Go on.” John motioned for him to continue. The subject jump didn't make sense, but he was sure Sherlock could explain it.

 

“'The Shadowed Hand' was the Third Reich's codename for myself and Mycroft. They knew it was two agents working together. They didn't like how successful I was, nor did they like how Mycroft always had brilliant plans for me; not to mention the fact that they never found out who we were. It was a touch exciting. To be wanted and tracked by multiple governments. Several times, they nearly caught me; those were the best times. Though I am particularly found of one time, when I was at the German border, trying to get out, when my ID was flagged. I thought I would have to fight my way out or otherwise trick them. If I'd actually managed to find my way into one of the concentration camps, I was fairly certain that I could engineer an escape. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a clerical error, and they let me go. I also ran several successful missions into Spain. At one point, they even contemplated sending me to Japan.” John shook his head in amazement.

 

“You would risk your life, wouldn't you? It would be nothing to you, wouldn't it?” John asked, almost astounded by the man's blasé attitude towards his own life. But then again, he was Sherlock.

 

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock redirected, taking another bite to beg an excuse for silence.

 

“Because you're an idiot,” John retorted, sipping from his glass. For a moment, Sherlock's gaze pierced John, and he almost began to wonder if he had crossed a line. But then Sherlock smirked, a glint in his eyes. And there was no way John could sit there with a straight face. Sherlock gave John a look, and John knew that Sherlock trusted him.

 

“Speaking of the War, may I ask what happened to your shoulder? I know that is where you gained your original injury.” John thought before he answered. Only a handful of people knew the full truth. But Sherlock deserved that much.

 

“As you know, I was originally brought into the army as a doctor. Eventually, I became a field doctor, helping to pull wounded men off of the front lines and into makeshift facilities we carried with our division.” Sherlock nodded, showing his understanding. “My division was pushed deep into enemy territory. A good portion of our men were injured, and we were waiting on another division to join us. We were just trying to hold our ground. One of our scouts was running back to report the enemy's position when he was shot. He would have died if I hadn't run out to grab him and drag him to safety. Technically, all medical personnel fall under the protection of the Geneva convention when wearing the cross armband. Unfortunately, we were so deep in enemy territory that they thought they could overwhelm us and kill us all. So they opened fire on all of us, including me. I tried to signal them that I was unarmed, but that didn't dissuade them.

 

“So I was forced to pick up arms and defend my fellow men. I was one of only three doctors. Both of the other doctors were in surgery at the time. Once I was able to drag our scout back to the edge of camp, I raised the alarm, and the remaining soldiers came out to assist. But the enemy was hot on my heels and gunning for blood. I was shot in the shoulder, putting that arm out of commission for a while. The enemy believed they would be able to kill us all before we could mount a significant defense. Fortunately, their intelligence was incorrect, and  we were able to hold our ground. Our reinforcements came a mere two hours later, though I don't remember much of that. I was already in surgery by then.

 

“There was quite heavy bleeding, which put me in a great deal of danger, since I had lost so much blood. I was put on the next transport back to friendly territory along with a few others in need of better treatment. I received a transfusion once I arrived at the next hospital, but those can go either way, and my reaction wasn't the best. From there, I was put on a boat  to America. Apparently I was one of the lucky ones taken during an opening in America's generosity. But on my trip there, the wound developed an infection, and that put my recovery even further away. I was able to finish recuperating here in America, and decided to stay here and work as a doctor instead of returning to England.” Sherlock said nothing during his tale, instead leaning in and showing John that he was paying attention. To be honest, John had only told a few others about the fact that he had picked up a gun. Most doctors never did, only praying that they wouldn't be hit because they were unarmed. They were meant to save lives, not take them. But John had seen no other way to protect the men and patients under his care.

 

“You were braver than most. Most would have run. Most wouldn't have the sense you did to sound the alarm and make sure your regiment held until reinforcements arrived. A great many would call it bravery and heroism.” John glanced up at Sherlock and read the sincerity in his eyes. The man truly meant it as a compliment. “And what with the difficulty over the transfusion and the infection, the army typically calls that enough trouble for a soldier and retires him. Though most would have considered that enough incentive to return home and enjoy retirement.”

 

“What, while half of England was still being bombed?” John shook his head. He had no desire for that, not when he had been so impaired. It had taken him quite some time to get full mobility in his arm back, and the leg had been his deciding factor in staying in America. “With a bad leg and recovering arm? Not likely.” Sherlock inclined his head, quietly agreeing. They'd all seen the headlines from England. Until the war was over, there wasn't much to celebrate in his homeland.

 

“What about your sibling?” Sherlock asked. “I do remember him being in good wealth.”

 

“Her,” John corrected.

 

“Her,” Sherlock amended. “So what about your sister?”

 

“Harry and I don't get along. She's a drinker. I managed to get her to come over to America with her husband during the beginning of the War, before I was discharged. She spent part of her time as my nurse, the other part working at a nearby factory. Two months before the fighting stopped, we got a letter that her husband was killed in action. When the War ended, they quickly tossed her out of her factory job to make room for all the GI Joe's coming back. After that, it was difficult for her to find work, and she took to drinking instead. She threw half of her husband's things at me one night in a fit. Tried to return them, but she wouldn't take them. She has his house, and a small penchant from the army.” The thing that struck John the most, and what he was most grateful for was the fact that he didn't seem to judge. They were both being honest today.

 

Suddenly John cleared his throat, needing to change the subject away from the discomfort they both felt. “So, these potatoes are delicious.”

 

“They are,” Sherlock agreed quietly, understanding John’s need to talk about anything else. “Oh, and I did say that I would tell you about that case in Spain.” John’s interest peaked, and he turned his attention back to Sherlock, eager to hear the story. And as their meal slowly progressed, hindered mostly by the steady flow of interesting conversation, John idly thought of writing all of their adventures down. They were the stuff of mystery novels, and Sherlock was so delightfully ingenious. Perhaps John could even submit his stories to the paper. There had to be others just as fascinated by this sort of thing, given the chance to know someone as extraordinary as Sherlock.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

That night, Sherlock’s home seemed brighter, the champagne seemed to flow faster, and the music seemed to be even louder. John had decided to mingle amongst the guests for an hour or so, feeling the prickle of someone watching him again, and finding Sherlock hidden amongst some of the windows overlooking his small pool. Satisfied that his friend knew he was here, John settled himself at the bar, ordering a drink. After a few drinks, the party's nearly incessant buzz became far more pleasant, and the crush of people around him almost soothing.

 

“Having fun,” a familiar voice asked. John turned to find Sherlock sitting next to him at the bar.

 

“I believe I am.” John leaned towards his friend, taking in the sights again. There were performers and artisans, stars and nobodies all around him. And Sherlock made it all happen practically every night. He ran around and solved crimes by day or night. He could tell a man's life story just from a glance. Was there anything the soul beside him could not do? By now, John could not imagine his life happening without Sherlock Holmes by his side.

 

“Then let's go and find some more. Must be boring, sitting around here.” He waved to the bartender. “Two more!” Once they received their drinks, the two men walked off.

 

From there, John had the best night of his life, and that included the one where he met Sherlock. They walked down to the pool, where they watched a few girls dance the Charleston. According to Sherlock, he found them dancing on the streets of the Theatre district, and now they were the top dancers for Broadway's best dancing scenes. They watched part of a dance marathon going on in the second ballroom. They listened to a ragtime band, and Sherlock pulled on his hand.

 

“We're two men, what are we going to do?” John protested.

 

“We dance,” Sherlock stated, as if it were obvious.

 

“I don't know how to dance a ladies' part.” John shook his head.

 

“You remember the basic? Just do it backwards. We'll try a waltz. Everyone knows a waltz. Just follow my lead.” And with that, Sherlock began to steer John around the dance floor. He and John had to stop more than once; John couldn't keep his giggles under control. They really were a strange pair: two men dancing together as old friends when they hadn't known each other for a week. But eventually, John got the hang of it, and their moves became more fluid. Sherlock, as it turned out, was a superb dancer. After the dance, both men collected their drinks and left to another room, this one filled with poker tables, roulette, and several other kinds of gambling games.

 

“Fancy a round?” Sherlock asked, speaking directly into his ear to avoid having to shout over the din of men shouting their joy or frustration. John moved to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He had a few dollars, and could afford to gamble with one. “Don't be ridiculous. I'll pull some chips. We'll bet with that.” He walked over to the woman manning the table and whispered a few words in her ear. She quickly nodded and pulled two chips out: one green and one black. Several men greeted Sherlock with jovial shouts, and Sherlock responded in kind, smiling and waving John over to the table. He then handed John the green chip.

 

“Who's the new friend? A business associate I should be shaking hands with?” One particularly round man asked, reaching over to shake John's hand anyways.

 

“This is a colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. He helped me solve my latest case,” Sherlock introduced John, who ended up having to shake hands with almost everyone at the table. Each man gave his name when he shook hands, though John couldn't keep up with half of them. As the roulette table ran once more without them betting, Sherlock murmured their titles. Half of them were famous, and the other half weren't known for good reason; but all of them were rich. “Care to finally bet?” He asked when the round finished. John nodded.

 

“Bets, sirs?” The woman asked.

 

“Red manque,” Sherlock said. Immediately, all the men at the table began to scramble, placing their bets on chips inside of Sherlock's bet. He laughed in response. “I have no influence on the table. Do I, madam?” He asked the woman. She shook her head.

 

“No sir. These tables come from the casino. They have no bias.” Sherlock flicked his eyes at her, clearly disbelieving, but it was enough. Though everyone at the table still kept their bets.

 

“For you, sir?” The woman directed her attention to John.

 

“Black 29,” John answered, taking a drink for courage.

 

“Do you not like my bet, John,” Sherlock asked teasingly. A smile formed on John's lips as he answered.

 

“No I don't.” This got Sherlock to grin at him. The woman then made one last call for bets before she let the wheel spin. Round and round the little ball went. John hadn't even told Sherlock how much he wanted to bet. Hopefully he wouldn't lose the money. Finally, the ball landed in the inner circle, bouncing around. It seemed like half the table was holding it's collective breath. A quick glance at Sherlock showed that the man didn't care too much. Well then, perhaps he didn't bet too much. And then it settled.

 

“Black 29!” The woman announced. Several groans went up from the table. But Sherlock's smile split wide, and his laughter threatened to overwhelm half of the mansion. It was the most wonderful sight, to see John's dear friend so happy. His eyes were crinkled, and nothing seemed to bother the man. Gone was the frenetic detective, and here was the fun-loving friend. Finally, Sherlock straightened as the woman slid John's winnings towards him.

 

“Well done, John.” Sherlock said mirthfully as he clapped John's back.

 

“So how much did I win, and how much did you lose?”

 

“Well, according to the rules, you bet five and got back a hundred and seventy five. I lost ten.”

 

“Ten pennies?” Sherlock gave something between a scoff and a chuckle.

 

“No John. Ten dollars.” John's jaw dropped.

 

“Sherlock, I don't have five dollars to drop,” he hissed at the detective, who shook his head, bemused.

 

“You may not have, but you just won a hundred and seventy. Think of it that way,” the man soothed. “Besides, now that we're here, we can play whenever we want, and I can give you all of my terrible deductions about some of the richest men in the city here.” John risked a glance around. After a short round of congratulations from the other men, John saw that none of them were paying attention to them anymore.

 

“Alright then,” John relented. “You're dying to tell me, aren't you?”

 

“Why of course I am,” Sherlock replied smoothly. “I have to help you create a poker face somehow. You aren't going to be any good with suspects in the future unless I teach you how to, and the best lessons are like this.” John arranged his best poker face, determined to show Sherlock a thing or two. He had good bedside manners with all his patients. He could handle Sherlock's deductions.

 

As it turned out, he couldn't. The pair spent quite some time at the gambling tables. That night held mixed luck for John and Sherlock: John always seemed to win at the gambling tables, spare poker. Sherlock seemed to be the king of reading poker faces and had some solid hands. But Sherlock dumbfounded John with every deduction, who was quickly learning that he had no way of holding back his surprise at Sherlock's skills. But John was slowly getting a grasp of what Sherlock meant. And he at least was getting adjusted to the wild things that came out of Sherlock's mouth. After their time at the mini-casino, Sherlock and John retired to the upstairs library. Sherlock explained that it was his favorite retreat during the parties because so few were sober and curious enough to venture up there that he was left relatively undisturbed. So they spent the rest of the night there, talking with another bottle of champagne.

  
  


As the guests poured out of the Holmes residence once more in the wee hours of morning, John noticed that Sherlock seemed more tense than usual. He certainly had a firmer grip on his champagne glass than the first time John met Sherlock. But just before John voiced his concern, Sherlock spoke.

 

“I've been thinking.” He trailed off after that, looking at his glass again.

 

“Well, that doesn't surprise me.” John hoped he sounded cheerful enough. Sherlock seemed to be in an intense mood.

 

“There is a great deal of room in this house. Certainly more than I could have use for. I don't use all of the rooms.” Sherlock seemed to choose each word with care, and John's mind rushed to a conclusion he didn't like at all.

 

“Do you wish to move?” John hoped he didn't. It would be far more difficult to see Sherlock if he did. And John appreciated his new-found company.

 

“No. Not that. I was wondering if you would want to move here.” For a moment, John didn't know what to say. But he eventually found something to say.

 

“I don't believe that I could afford even one room here. It is a lovely place, and I would want Mrs. Hudson to get what she needed to maintain this place properly.” He couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson; she was good to Sherlock.

 

“Would you enjoy staying here?” Sherlock stared into John's eyes, and John felt pinned. Sherlock would know if John lied, so he didn't.

 

“I would. I would never lack for entertainment or company.”

 

“And if an advert were placed in the newspaper for a room here, available for free, would you take it?” John didn't want anyone's pity, so he broke eye contact with Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock, I don't accept charity. I make a living wage as a doctor in Manhattan.”

 

“Then if a room here were to come up for the same pay as your current cottage?” Sherlock grasped John's arm, turning his gaze back towards the detective.

 

“It would short-change Mrs. Hudson, which I have no intention of doing. If I were to stay here, it would come out of my own wages, and I know I can't afford that.”

 

“I already pay for this place on my own. And it would be no trouble at all for me. As I said, I have more room than I need.”

 

“Sherlock, I won't accept charity like that.” After the final declaration, Sherlock thought for a moment before nodding.

 

“Very well then. I can discuss the rent with Mrs. Hudson. And since I am the one asking you to stay here as my consulting physician, then I will compensate you the difference between your current rent and your rent here. If you wish to move.” John blinked. Was there no length this man wouldn't go to? And while John didn't want to take charity, there seemed to be no way around the unstoppable force that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

“You just don't give up, do you?” John asked, shaking his head in defeat.

 

“No. Though admittedly, the words are strange coming from your mouth. I mostly hear that from criminals.” Sherlock's gaze was strange now. John couldn't identify the emotion behind the man, but John could tell he was more relaxed than before, which was a good sign.

 

“Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I had said no? If I had stayed in the cottage next door?” John hoped that he could strike a bit of humor into the situation.

 

“Oh, well I would have arranged for several different groups to come out to the cottage tomorrow to fix it up. The outside is overgrown and quite dreadful looking.” That definitely got John to laugh. Sherlock then turned back towards the window. “Honestly, I see it often enough from my bedroom window. I may have it repaired simply because I would prefer it that way.” John was roaring with laughter now. Sherlock would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this, and I might be able to pick up with a second fic later. I can't make any promises right now, but I would like to if I have the right inspiration and the time to write it all down.


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